


Credit / No Credit

by baethoven



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dom/sub Undertones, Frottage, Grinding, Like barely negotiated kink, M/M, Mild S&M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rimming, Rough Sex, Tarkin and Krennic have a sordid history of picking up on younger men and tag teaming them, Teacher-Student Relationship, This is just generally fucked up, This is sinful and shameful and the author isn't sorry, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8131168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baethoven/pseuds/baethoven
Summary: Ask the faculty and student body at the university about Wilhuff Tarkin and Orson Krennic, and they will say they are excellent professors with good rapport, professional in their student interactions, and a valuable asset to the educational community.Hux knows better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the lovely anon who left me some wicked asks about Tarkin and Krennic being very bad professors.
> 
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS

Hux is in his third year of university when he takes _Crime and The Family_  for his sociology requirements. The professor is Orson Krennic, who has a reputation for possessing a cold stare and a cruel tongue. His page on one of those professor rating websites is filled with bitter comments and high ratings, concessions from students that while he is a hard ass, he is a good professor. Beyond that, Hux knows Krennic was a colleague of his father’s once upon a time, and Hux’s adviser, Dr. Tarkin, suggested he enrolled in the course. “It may be enlightening,” the man had said during Hux’s advising appointment, his shallow blue eyes staring down at Hux over sharp cheekbones, “considering your family history.”

Hux bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking out, scarred over from the nervous habit over the years; he admired Dr. Tarkin far too much to let the an'swell placed barbs at his father’s’ failures goad him into talking back.

“Thank you, professor,” Hux said primly, burying his anger and shame deep down where he kept his desperate need for approval.

Tarkin stared at him with amusement, his thin lips twitching up at the corners into a small smile.

Krennic’s class is held in the frigid bowels of the psychology building; there are no windows and the floors bare odd discolorations, like blood that had been long ago spilled. Hux idly wonders if there is any stock to the rumored lobotomies the psych department practiced. 

Hux sits in the back to stay out of trouble, but all his peers have dark hair and he is easily the tallest among them. When Krennic enters the room, his eyes instantly track to the copper gleam of Hux’s hair. 

Krennic’s dress shirt is pristine, the white of it almost blinding beneath the fluorescent lights. His shoes have a militaristic click to them, and the class sits up a little straighter at the sound of them echoing against the blank walls. He surveys the room, and Hux notices his eyes are the same, flat color of Dr. Tarkin’s.

“This is Sociology 450. if you are not a sociology major you should not be enrolled. If you are wait listed, the class is full, so save all of us time and leave now.”

The sudden address leaves the class fearfully silent, and a few students leave without a spoken word, eyes downcast. Krennic looks around the room and his eye’s meet Hux’s, and something twists within Hux. It's sharper than the low grade anxiety he carries with him through life; it feels like what his text book for BIO 110 had described as _fight or flight_ ,  _the physiological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived threat to survival._  Hux digs his nails into his palms and holds the man’s gaze, refusing to be weak like his father. 

Krennic breaks fist.

Whatever the lecture is on, Hux can’t recall; he’s too busy watching the man’s movements, the roll of his shoulders, the undulation of movement that ripples out from the straight of his back up his neck. Hux focuses on regulating his breathing, so that the moments when Krennic’s eyes meet his own, he appears calm and unaffected. 

The class ends after an eternity- entirely too soon- and Hux is slow to gather his things, tarries at the end of the line of students exiting the class, hoping to catch his professor’s eye.

Krennic indulges him.

“Wait a moment,” the man says, summoning Hux to him with a wave of his hand. Hux walks up to him in an even march. “What’s your name?”

“Hux,” he replies.

“First name?” Krennic presses.

“Armitage,” Hux says, the word ashy on his tongue. He _hates_  his name.

“Are you Brendol Hux’s son?” Krennic asks.

Hux nods, biting his teeth down on the  _illegitimate son_  that always wants to break free.

“I worked with your father, before that whole- “ Krennic politely doesn’t say _tax evasion scandal_ , instead opts for, “mess. He’s a brilliant man. I expect as much from you.”

“I will endeavor not to disappoint you,” Hux says, his stomach flipping. Krennic’s eyes scan his neck, and Hux can feel the man’s gaze right on his jugular. He flushes hot, sure that his cheeks are ruddy, but Krennic looks pleased. 

“Do try to pay attention next class,” Krennic says, syllables thick like molasses, dark like turmeric when Hux’s tongue peaks out to taste the air.

Hux sits at the back of the class each week and switches between dutifully taking notes and watching Krennic with hooded eyes. Hux has a weakness for praise, and Krennic denies it of him often, harshly criticizing his essays and ridiculing his answers during class discussion. It would frustrate Hux if not for the moments when he lingers after class on the flimsy pretext on improving his work, where Krennic reads his drafts and hums in contemplation.

“Good start,” he always says, and his words might as well be fingers for the way they drag down Hux’s spine. “Diligently done, though there is still some work needed...”

The semester passes too quickly, and soon it is finals weeks- Hux has run out of time. Krennic does not teach any other of the courses that Hux needs; Hux no longer has a useful reason to haunt Krennic at the end of class, to drag out their conversations longer and longer. 

Hux finishes his exam almost immediately, but sits in his chair erasing answers and rewriting them, waiting for his peers to leave. Finally, the last one leaves, and Hux gets up from his seat, walking around the pools of dried blood and up towards Krennic.

“Here you are, professor,” Hux says in his steadiest voice, handing the paper over. 

“You’re not usually one to take so long on a test, Hux,” Krennic says, and Hux’s ears ring from the sound of his surname; Krennic never calls him Armitage, the name of a bastard, just addresses him as if he was properly a part of Brendol’s family. 

“I took my time to ensure I did well,” Hux lies.

Krennic stands up and begins to pack his suitcase, stuffing the papers into a folder. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asks, and _now_  Hux thinks, _it has to be now_ _._

Emboldened by his youth and the way Krennic has stared at him this whole semester, like Hux was something worthy of consumption, Hux grabs the man’s wrist. The skin there is thin and Hux can feel Krennic’s pulse flutter beneath his fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Krennic asks. It is not a question.

“I want,” Hux confesses, unable to say the rest. _I want you to keep praising me, I want you to stare at me like I’m worth taking down._

Krennic doesn’t stare at the place where Hux is gripping him, just looks at Hux’s face with narrowed eyes, his face a mask of thoughtful consideration. Hux knows better, can feel how Krennic’s skin heats beneath his own, see the flush creeping up from beneath his crisp, white collar. 

“Follow me,” Krennic finally says. 

They walk out of the building, into the cold winter night towards the Faculty Office building, and Hux is hard already from anticipation, from the tight stride of his professor, authoritative and fearsome. 

They don’t go into Krennic’s office, which is on the first floor. Instead, they take a right, up the stairwell and to the third floor. The third floor is barely lit save for an office at the very end, the door open and pooling light into the hallway. Hux’s stomach drops immediately when he recognizes the number on the door.

“Wilhuf,” Krennic says as they pass through the threshold, “I’ve an interesting encounter to report.”

Dr. Tarkin is sitting at his desk, a pen held loosely in his right hand and cup of something amber colored beside his left. He looks between Krennic’s pleased smile and Hux’s horrified face, and nods.

“And what is that, Orson?” Tarkin asks, abandoning his paper work. He leans back and folds his arms across his chest, stares at Hux while Krennic explains.

“Young Hux here propositioned me,” Krennic says, and Hux wants to die, wants the floor to swallow him up. As much as he lusts after Krennic’s approval, his esteem for Tarkin is immeasurable. He could have dealt with Krennic’s rejection; Tarkin’s disappointment will be unbearable. 

“Did he, now?” Tarkin says, his voice a touch amused, his lips twitching at the corners like they do whenever Hux says something clever.

Krennic places a hand on Hux’s shoulder, his grip a vice, and adjusts his body so he is standing fully infront of Tarkin, entirely on display; to Hux’s embarrassment, he’s still painfully hard.

“I thought it best to defer to you as to how we should proceed,” Krennic says. His voice is too close to Hux’s ears, his hot breath ghosting down his neck. “You are his adviser after all.”

Tarkin sits there and stares at Hux for a long minute, letting the young man squirm in Krennic’s grip, his face shameful and body hunching in with regret. Then, without a word, Tarkin gets up from his chair and circles his large oak desk, walks behind Hux and Krennic, and closes the door with a soft _click_.

“As his adviser,” Tarkin says in a low, soft voice, “I would recommend he proceed.”

Tarkin might as well have slapped him for the way Hux flinches, the realization of his words crashing over Hux like a dousing of cold water. 

“Excuse me?” Hux asks, because this cannot be. In all his wildest fantasies, the debauched scenarios that have run through his mind, never has he considered this; Tarkin low voice, usually airy and regal a little hoarser.

Tarkin walks infront of Hux, takes a step and crowds into him, and Hux backs up into Krennic’s wide body. Krennic snakes his arms around Hux and holds him in place while Tarkin stares down into his eyes. He grips Hux’s chin tightly with his long fingers, angling Hux's face the way he wants. It's unbearable to have to stare into Tarkin's eyes, to see up close the expectation in them, like this too is a test Hux must past.

“Your father used to always tell Orson and I how much of a weak boy you were,” Tarkin says. His words taste like brandy when Hux breathes them in. “Such a shame he did not hold you in higher regard. You’ve turned out to be a very clever young man.”

“Very clever,” Krennic echoes, his hand idling over the font of Hux’s pants, palming at his erection. Hux tries to breath and finds he can’t, suffocates in the hot place between these two men’s bodies. “I think we can put him to good use.”

Tarkin leans close until there is barely a space between their lips. Hux feels the vibration of the air as Tarkin says, “You’ll do great things, Hux, with us on your side.”

Hux tilts his head up and surrenders, bares his neck for Krennic’s teeth as Tarkin devours him. 

 

* * *

 

It’s winter break in their sleepy college town, and the streets are completely empty, heavy snow drifts pristine, barren of any footsteps. Hux walks alone in the night air, his teeth chattering and snow catching in his hair. He’s one of the few students who stayed behind this break, having no family to host him for the holidays; his father is still in prison and his mother has long been dead. 

Hux has been alone in his apartment with no studying or work to distract himself. The library is closed for the holidays and won’t open for another week, so he has no shifts scheduled. He’s sat by himself in his empty apartment, shrouded in blankets to keep out the cold. He’s tried reading for pleasure, half paid attention to the movies on his Netflix queue, but nothing has been able to stop his wandering mind, to keep him from incessantly checking his phone.

After Krennic and Tarkin had finished with him- the both of them still clothed while Hux had been stripped and pressed down onto Tarkin’s old oak desk- Tarkin had said, “Be sure to email me your number.”

“Yes, me as well,” Krennic said. 

They buttoned Hux up and smoothed back his hair, wrapped his scarf carefully around his neck to hide the ring of bruises. Tarkin observed him with a detached stare, scanning him with the interest one would a favored pet, and said, “Do be prompt in your contact, Mr. Hux.”

Hux had gone home in a daze, unaware of how he navigated the night until he found himself in bed. Before passing out, he had emailed his number off to Tarkin, including a CC to Krennic. 

Two weeks pass before Hux hears anything. Finally, late one night his phone buzzes, a text alert flashing across his screen. He scrambles from beneath the layer of blankets, his numb fingers tapping out his password. The text is from a number he does not recognize, and his pulse hammers hard in his ears as he reads it.

_7:00 PM tomorrow at the following address. Dress well. Do not be late._

Hux flips open his calendar to put in a reminder, though he doubts he’ll forget it, let alone get any sleep knowing he’ll be between Krennic and Tarkin again. His calendar tells him that tomorrow is the 24th, Christmas Eve. Hux wonders if they have any family, some kind of social obligations to hold, but then maybe they’re like him, alone and adrift during these respites between work. Hux tries to close his eyes and imagine the both of them in bright sweaters surrounded by family. It does not line up with the memory burned into his mind: Krennic with his sleeves rolled up and three fingers crooked up Hux’s ass, Tarkin tracing Hux’s lips with his fingers and staring down at him with a gaze that broke him to pieces. Hux groans and slips his hand beneath the worn quilts, palms himself and replays the vivid memory of Tarkin’s cold praises. _That’s a good boy,_  he had said, like Hux was a dog who’d done a clever trick. 

Hux dresses in a dark green button up that compliments his pale skin and copper hair, and bundles up for the walk in the cold. He isn’t sure which of his professors had sent the text the night before, or what he’ll find at the address. Google Maps tells him it’s a fifteen minute walk through their town’s small downtown, past the pubs and thrift stores, their windows dark and outlined with twinkling Christmas lights. The streets are empty as he walks, and Hux is glad; no one is there to witness the way his nervous breaths cloud into the air in quick, raid bursts. 

The address he arrives to belongs to an old home with a wrap around porch and large windows, all of which are lit in a warm, flickering light. Hux stands outside for a moment, searching through himself until he finally finds his bravery. Then, he walks up to the door and knocks.

Tarkin answers the door- he’s in an ashy grey dress shirt that just serves to make his eyes bluer, sharper- and says, “Just on time, Mr. Hux.”

“Sorry,” for what, Hux doesn’t know. He steps through the threshold. 

The air is heady with the scent of charred meat and spice, nutmeg and cinnamon wafting around, and something soft and bluesy is playing from some unknown place. Hux looks around, at the old classic furniture and aged photos of a younger man with Tarkin’s unimpressed gaze. 

Tarkin places a hand on Hux’s lower back, makes him jump in his boots. Tarkin says low into his ear, “Don’t linger in the foyer, Hux. Orson and I have a surprise for you.”

Hux hurries to unwrap his scarf and strip from his jacket. When he turns to look at Tarkin, who removed his hand but still looms in Hux’s space, he has a smirk on his lips and a hungry glint in his eyes.

Takrin leads the way into a small dining room; on the table are three place settings of fine china and crystal glasses. An assortment of foods lay in wait: prime rib and turkey, garlic green beans, mashed potatoes and fresh baked bread, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and candied walnuts. Hux’s mouth waters, and across the room Krennic chuckles. 

“Look at him,” Krennic says, his voice only a little mean, “when’s the last time you’ve had something proper to eat?”

“Nothing real since I started college,” Hux admits. “I’ve mostly subsisted off of ramen and beans.”

Tarkin chuckles and places a hand on Hux back again, his long fingers hot through the thin fabric of Hux’s shirt. “I figured as much.” He pushes Hux into a chair and Krennic fills his glass from a decanter. 

Dinner passes in a blur of sensations; rich meat, sage and allspice melting on Hux’s tongue, the tannic taste of the wine cutting through the sweet bursts of cranberry, Krennic and Tarkin’s exchanges, a mixture of cutting remarks about their colleagues and funny stories from their work. Hux’s glass is never empty, though he keeps sipping from it between warm bouts of laughter and bites of food. 

Hux isn’t sure how much time passes before the decanter is empty and their plates cleared. Krennic leans back in his chair and swirls the last dredges of his wine in his glass, stares down at Hux over it with an openly hungry stare. 

“How are you feeling?” Krennic asks him. 

Hux sways a little in his seat and smiles. “Very good, sir.”

Tarkin sets his napkin on his late and says to Krennic, “Orson, I think it’s time for dessert.”

Krennic gets up from his seat and goes over towards a small liquor cart, takes the glass bottle and pours two fingers of something dark and amber colored; passes a glass to Tarkin and Hux.

“What’s this?” Hux asks, sniffing at it. It smells faintly of vanilla and oak.

“Bourbon,” Tarkin says. He watches Hux as he takes a sip. The liquor burns down his throat, the flames of alcohol lighting him up from the inside out.

“So what’s for dessert?” he croaks out.

Krennic drinks his glass in one long pull and sets it down on the table. “You are.”

Krennic gets up from his seat and circles around to Hux, puts two fingers to the pulse point on his neck. Hux’s heart is hammering and his breath is coming in shallow; his tongue still burns from the liquor when Krennic leans down to kiss him. He kisses with unhinged authority, his tongue dominating Hux’s, teeth nipping at him to keep him in line. It feels as if Krennic will take advantage of every weakness he can find, and Hux is baring them all for him.  Hux would be ashamed of the reedy noises he's making, but Krennic’ hands are keeping him firm, steadying his body’s sway. Tarkin stays seated, just watches them both between sips of his drink.

It doesn’t take long before Krennic has him mostly undone, his shirt discarded and belt pulled away. Hux did not have a chance to be ashamed of his thin body the first time they took him, and Krennic gives him no opportunity now, just lavishes hard bites on his neck, sucks bruises into his chest, nips at his peaked nipples until Hux can’t recognize himself in the noises he’s making. 

Krennic hoists Hux up, carelessly pushes aside the dirty dishes to make a space to lay Hux down on. Hux is right where Tarkin’s place setting had been, writhing beneath his gaze. He wants to screw his eyes shut and lose himself in Krennic’s demanding hands, but Tarkin’s eyes have always had gravitas to them, and Hux is unable to look away, falling apart in the traction of his stare.

Soon, Hux is completely naked against the fine linen table cloth. Tarkin and Krennic are still completely dressed, and Hux hates it, wants them to be as debased as himself. 

“Hoist up your legs,” Krennic orders in a gruff voice. Hux does as he’s told, grabs the back of his thighs and brings his knees to his chest. 

“Enjoy,” Tarkin says; to himself or Krennic, Hux isn’t sure.

Krennic sinks to the floor on his knees, spreads apart his cheeks and laves at Hux with his tongue. It’s foul and wet, and uncomfortably hot, makes Hux throw his head back against the sturdy table and howl. Krennic's tongue- the same one that admonished him in class, that told Hux if only he  _applied_ himself just a little more, what great things he could do- is circling his rim in a steady pulse. Hux gasps and chokes at the way the muscle flattens against him, before undulating back so it can breach the tight barrier. Hux has never had this done to him before, never considered it; it seems too foul and lowly for someone like Krennic. HIs fingers slip from his sweat slicked thighs and dig down into the tablecloth. Hux knows better than to touch, remembers the way Krennic had squeezed at his throat and growled  _good boys always ask for permission first._ Hux glances down between the delta of his legs and the steady arm Krennic has barred to hold them back, and watches the bob of Krennic's head, the gluttonous look on his face like he's sampling something truly savory and not just licking into Hux's ass.

Tarkin sets his empty glass down beside Hux’s head and leans over him, blocking out Krennic from Hux’s line of sight. 

“How does that feel, boy?” he asks Hux.

Hux’s tries to find coherency, but Krennic licks it out of him with each cruel swipe of his tongue. All he can manage is, “Good, Dr. Tarkin, so good.”

Tarkin reaches down Hux’s body and grabs his cock, smears pearly beads of precome down his length. Krennic hums into Hux, pushes his tongue past his tightness and Hux yells.

“Now, Hux,” Tarkin hums as he teases Hux with slow, languid pulls, “you know you need to ask permission in all things.”

Hux nods, knows this intrinsically. “Y-yes sir,” he croaks.

Tarkin has that pleased look in his eyes, and it drives Hux mad. Krennic grips him tightly with his palms, takes his thighs in each hand and spreads him out flat on the table. Hux’s chest heaves and the pressure starts to build, the end coming at him too quick. 

“Please sir,” he begs, tears welling up in his eyes, blurring Tarkin’s smirk.

“Please, what?” he asks. There’s no tease to his voice, just an expectation that Hux will meet the set standards.

“Please, let me come.”

Tarkin tightens his grip and strokes Hux fast, says in a completely unaffected voice, “You may.”

Hux doesn’t know if he screams or chokes on the shout in his throat, is too lost in the tremors shaking out from the places Krennic and Tarkin touch him, the epicenters of pleasure. His vision goes black, and when he comes to, the two men are standing over him and looking down with matching dark eyes, the blues of their irises small rings around their pupils.

“What a good boy,” Tarkin sighs, runs a hand through Hux’s sweat slick hair, and Hux nuzzles into his palm, basks in the glow of their approval.

 

* * *

 

Winter break continues, and the library reopens for those students taking winter session courses. The town is still quiet, and when Hux is at work, he has very little to do beyond the occasional reshelving.

The library has very lax cellphone policy for their staff: as long as it's not busy and most work is done, employees can use their phones. Hux sits behind the counter, stares at the empty lobby, the attached coffee shop that only has one patron, and picks up his phone. He opens the internet app, taps on the search engine and stares at the screen, hesitating. 

It has been several weeks, and once or twice a week he is summoned to Tarkin's home with only a text. They never ask him if he's available, just send the time and an unwritten expectation that he should be there. Primarily, they've summoned him for sex. The other night Hux had finally been fucked; after what felt like hours of Tarkin rubbing at his prostate, his lithe fingers scissoring in and out, getting him loose while Krennic rubbed at Hux's chest, kissed him and kissed him and  _kissed him_ , until his mouth was sore and lips spit slicked, Tarkin had said, "Orson, Hux has been so good. I think we should reward him." Krennic had put him on all fours atop the spare bed in the room where these things happened, facing the chair Tarkin had receded to, and slid in slowly, inch by inch. Hux dropped his head down, muffling his moans into the bed sheets until Krennic had pulled him up by a fistful of hair. "Ah ah," he had chided, his voice only slightly wavering, "stay up so Wilhuff can watch. Don't look away."

The sharp pull of the hand in his hair, the splitting half-pain of Krennic driving into him, the pleasure sparking up his spine; none of it was as intense as watching those blue eyes narrowly observe and catalog the way Hux came apart.

Other times they summoned Hux and spent the evenings drinking and conversing. One memorable night after several glasses of wine, when Hux had been sure he would be taken to the spare room and put through the ringer, Tarkin had led them into the living room, dimmed the lights and played a black and white movie. They boxed Hux in, one on the either side, each touching him and murmuring in low voices.

This whole thing is depraved and cruel, and at times oddly parental. Hux knows there is a name for what's going on, what he is to these two men, but he's not sure if he is willing to relabel himself in his mind, to look up the definition of the name that buzzes on his tongue.

In the end, he sets his phone down and goes off to find other work,  _submissive_ half typed in his phone.

 

* * *

 

 

The new semester starts, and the pace of life picks back up again. Hux spends his days in class, working in the library, and studying. A notice arrives in his student account, alerts him that his application for the position of Dr. Tarkin's grading assistant has been approved. Hux does not remember ever seeing a notice for the position, let alone ever applying for it, but he isn't surprised when he sees it. On top of his school load, he grades papers for Tarkin, has keys to the man's office now as per university protocol. 

Life passes by quickly, midterms coming and going, until something peculiar happens.

For weeks Hux has been finding errant scribbles and inappropriate notes in the front pages of returned books, right beneath the taped barcodes where he couldn’t possibly miss them. The first two he ignored, mind clouded with the looming threat of assignments and midterms; he didn’t catch who the perpetrator was, just scanned them and placed them in the right cart for re-shelving later. The third one catches his eye and makes him pause.

 _Hey Red,_ it reads in a barely legible scrawl, _you’ve got a nice ass._

Hux squints down at the note in an equal mix of irritation and curiosity, his need for order contrasting sharply with his pride. He closes the book and reads the title printed in a faux-gold leaf on the fraying cover- _Picasso in Rose._ Hux turns the page and scrunches his nose at the scrawl, and refuses to feel flattered.

He scans the barcode and the computer tells him _Solo, Benjamin, B.A. Studio Art,_ last checked out the book, and it’s three days overdue. Usually, Hux let’s these things slide, but he checks the _apply charges_ box, billing $1.50 to _Solo, Benjamin, B.A. Studio Art’_ s account.

Overdue books start trickling in from the drop boxes around campus, books on Vermeer that say _I’ve never seen someone so pale, do you get out ever,_ books with long winded writings about Dada that have _charging the person who’s flirting with you late fees is poor form_ scribbled in the margins. One book that details color theory is dog eared on a chapter entitled _Oranges_ and has written _do the carpets match the drapes_ beneath.

Hux finds it all ridiculous and decides to apply a $30 vandalism fee and a note that says _please see librarian_ to _Solo, Benjamin, B.A. Studio Art’_ s account. Then, he waits.

When the vandal arrives, he’s not at all what Hux expected. He had pictured some gorgeous boy with light hair and glasses, his designer jeans tastefully splattered in paint. _Solo, Benjamin_ is taller than Hux with a crooked face reminiscent of cubism and dark eyes, wet and cracked like they were taken right out of a Rembrandt portrait. Where he is not pale, he’s dark- black hair, black moles in odd places with no pattern, black clothes. He cracks a smirk and his pearly white teeth are crooked behind the red of his lips.

“Are you the librarian?” the man asks, as if this whole thing isn’t some kind of set up.

“No, I’m just one of the clerks. What can I help you with?”

The man leans on the counter and gives Hux the one-over. A few months ago Hux might have found this intimidating, been reduced to a blushing mess under those dark eyes, but he’s spent his extracurricular activities under very good tutelage. He stands firm and meet’s the other’s dark eyes with a cool glare.

“You see, I’ve got these charges on my account, about $50 dollars worth, and I don’t really have the money to pay them off,” the man explains.

 _This is entirely too easy,_ Hux thinks even as he keys in his code to the computer. The man is looking at him with hooded eyes and a lazy hunger.

“May I see your ID?” Hux asks out of formality. He knows exactly who this is, already has his student ID number memorized.

 _Solo, Benjamin_ hands it over and Hux reads is briefly, says. “Ben, that’s a nice name.” Hux makes sure to say it casually, like he would an old friend’s name. Ben grins wickedly, catching instantly on his tone.

“Not as interesting as yours, I bet,” Ben replies with a wink.

Hux brings up his file, scans it quickly, lets his mouse hover over _clear all charges_ , “Yes, I see here. Looks like you’ve been charged for late fees and vandalism. Quite a bit of it.”

Ben shrugs and says, “Must have got the wrong guy. Anything I can do to get those charges dropped?”

“Well, the library has a program for students to work off their charges,” Hux lies- no such thing exists. Usually when a student comes in and asks nice enough, they drop the charges. Ben grins at Hux like he knows it and says, “When can I get started?”

Hux looks around himself, checks that no one’s in earshot, and says, “Tonight, ideally. After the library closes, of course.”

“Of course,” Ben parrots back mockingly. Hux steels himself against the disrespect, decides that Ben is going to need a firm hand and guidance.

“See you then,” Hux says and turns away to finish his work.

“Wait,” Ben says, reaching over the counter and grabbing Hux’s shirt- already pushing boundaries, “what do I call you?”

Hux blinks at him and says in a soft voice, “You may call me sir.”

 

* * *

 

Ben proves difficult to tame; he’s needy and rails against Hux’s orders. Where Hux had been greedy for touch and willing to do anything for it, to get down on his knees and beg, follow whatever instruction’s thrown his way, Ben rejects Hux’s direction. He pushes Hux, goads him with tart remarks and childlike tantrums until he get’s what he wants, and Hux gives in every time, useless against the force of Ben’s energy.

Weak and desperate to gain the upper-hand, he goes to the only people who could help him.

“Is something the matter, Hux?” Tarkin asks him one afternoon. They’re in his office, the blinds drawn back, allowing the sunlight to pour in. Hux has a stack of papers on his lap and red ink smeared on his hands. It is the perfect picture of a healthy relationship between professor and student, and Hux knows Tarkin crafted it to throw any suspicion off himself. Any passing student or colleague who glances in would never guess the bruises on Hux’s wrists came from the tie knotted smartly around Tarkin’s neck.

“Not really professor,” Hux says timidly, keeps his eyes on the test before him. The room is silent for a moment before Tarkin gets up and closes the door.

“Hux, if something is wrong, I’d like to be informed,” he says in the stern, fatherly voice that always manages to set Hux on edge. “Your well being is my concern.”

Hux says in a hurried voice, “A student of mine is misbehaving.”

Tarkin blinks at him, the only way Hux knows that he’s surprised. “I wasn’t aware you had a student.”

Krennic and Tarkin have never strictly forbidden Hux from seeking others. The only limitation that has been put on him came one night when he was astride Krennic, shallowly bouncing on his cock while Tarkin watched from an armchair. Tarkin has never undressed- Hux has never seen anything of him beyond his wrists and expectant stare. He is apparently content barking out orders, telling Krennic how to take Hux with precise instruction, denying Hux except for the occasional touch.

Tarkin had been two drinks in and staring at Hux hungrily, eyes tracking the way his cock bobbed against his stomach after each thrust, his resolve briefly dimming- Hux thought that finally, _finally_ , Tarkin was going to have him.

Instead he smirked as Krennic drove deeper and Hux screamed, his whole body trembling, and said, “Remember who you belong to.”

Even as he has tried his hand at dominating Ben and his wild temper, he has always remembered that his place is between Krennic and Tarkin’s desires.

“I do,” Hux confirms, and continues, “He’s someone I’ve been trying to tutor but… he misbehaves.”

Tarkin hums and sits back behind his desk, steeples his fingers in contemplation. “Some students can be trouble. We can’t all get lucky with pupils as eager as you.”

The tips of Hux’s ears burn red and he nods. “What should I do?”

Tarkin looks out the window, towards the campus quad teeming with life below, then says. “I think Orson and I could be of some help.”

 

* * *

 

“You’ve got friends who live in a mansion?” Ben says incredulously that following Saturday. They are standing outside of Tarkin’s home, staring up the driveway and towards a door.

“It’s not a mansion,” Hux says, because really, it isn’t. It’s just a home; it’s a little large and empty, save for Tarkin’s bedroom (which Hux has _never_ been permitted in) his study, a guest bedroom Krennic sometimes carries Hux to when they have finished with him, and a room that is stark save for a bed with a sturdy frame and Tarkin’s favorite arm chair.

“Ok, but you’ve got friends who own a home?” Ben pushes. He’s nervous right now, fidgeting beside Hux who is in turn calm and still; it’s clearly putting Ben on edge. Ben has an animal awareness to him, an understanding of situations that goes beyond the surface to some instinctual place, and right now he seems to have realized that he’s about to be cornered.

“Come on, let’s go meet them.”

Krennic answers the door, dressed in slacks and a clean pressed shirt, white as always. Hux wonders if Tarkin likes him in the color, or if Krennic is just too busy of a person to indulge in variety. Krennic stares up Ben with narrowed eyes and a look of disapproval, like the four inches between them is offensive.

“Hux, who is this tall monstrosity you’ve brought?”

“This is Ben. Ben, this is Krennic.”

Ben swallows and meets Krennics assessing eyes, and asks, “Do you’ve got a first name? Sounds a little odd to be anything but your last.”

Hux waits for Krennic’s fury, but it doesn’t come, and instead the man looks pleased, like he’s going to enjoy Ben’s smart mouth. “You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”

Ben doesn’t reply, just shuts his mouth and looks to Hux with pleading eyes. Hux shrugs, enjoying the way Ben squirms. They follow Krennic inside. They don’t go to the kitchen or the living room where these things usually start, with either a brandy or a meal, but up stairs straight to the room. Tarkin is already sitting in the armchair, a book on his lap and a glass of wine in his hand. He doesn’t look up as they enter, just finishes reading the page he’s on.

Hux does what is usually expected of him, kneels down beside Tarkin, to his left, head bent slightly. Krennic sits across from them on the bed, his legs spread wide, undoing the buttons at his cuffs. Which leaves Ben in the middle staring between the three of them like a caged beast.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Tarkin clears his throat and the sound makes Hux’s skin crawl, the authority in the reverberation already making him submit. Hux glances at Ben and it seems to have the same effect- Ben straightens up, and it would be the perfect image of obedience if not for the defiant tilt of his chin.

“Young Hux here informed us he was having trouble with you,” Tarkin says, eyes still on the book. He takes the red ribbon sewn into the spine of the book and slides it between the pages, marks his spot.

Hux looks to Ben, who stares at him with blown out eyes and says, “That’s between us. What’s it to you?”

Tarkin finally looks up, and the glare he levels Ben makes the breath catch in Hux’s throat. Ben doesn’t shirk away, stays ram rod straight, but his lips quiver and Hux knows it means he’s two seconds away from a tantrum. Any other person and Hux would intervene, but he has been thinking about this for days, wondering what an unstoppable force like Ben would do against the immovable object of Tarkin.

Before Ben can fly off the handle, Krennic laughs behind him. “Hux, you didn’t mention the mouth on him.” He’s got that pleased look, the hungry glint in his eyes that means he’s three seconds away from pinning Ben to the bed.

“Why am I here?” Ben asks, half turned so he can look at Krennic, but unwilling to leave Tarkin out of his sights.

“You’re here because Hux is our pupil,” Tarkin says, and as a sign of indulgence, of _favor_ , he runs a hand along the side of Hux’s face, scratches underneath his chin like Hux is his favorite dog. Hux warms at it, the feel of Tarkin’s casual affection making him bold; he turns his face and nips at one of Tarkin’s long fingers, licks it with his tongue, never stops looking at Ben.

Krennic get’s up from the bed and slots right up against Ben’s back. He flinches, tries to stand his ground as Krennic snakes his arm around Ben’s center, leans up to say into his ear, “You don’t have to stay. You can leave or stop this whenever you like. But we’re going to teach Hux a lesson tonight.”

Ben gasps, tilts his head back as Krennic wraps one of his palms around his neck squeezing softly against his Adam’s apple. Ben’s voice is feathered and breathy when he asks, “What lesson?”

Tarkin chuckles, pats his lap for Hux to sit astride him. They sit there, with Tarkin’s hand low on Hux’s back, the glass of wine still in his hand. When he answers, the words are low and spoken against Hux’s chin.

“How to break you, of course."

* * *

 

Krennic has Ben pinned down by his throat, his other hand roughly palming Ben through his jeans. It looks painful, and Ben moans loud, curses at Krennic.

"Fuck you old man," Ben snarls as his hips buck into Krennic's hand. Krennic removes his hand and slaps Ben, and Hux flinches at the sound. Tarkin tighten's his grip on Hux' waist and chuckles at the filthy groan that escapes Ben.

"Unlike Wilhuff over there, I like a little bit of bad behavior," Krennic says. He climbs atop Ben, straddles him and starts grinding down, length against length. His hand never leaves Ben's neck. "Make no mistake, though, you will behave by the end of the night."

"What about them?" Ben grits out. 

"I might fuck Hux," Krennic drawls lazily, and Ben gasps at a particularly rough thrust, "But then again that's up to Wilhuff. He's in charge after all."

"This is fucking twisted," Ben gasps ever as he grips Krennic's hips, tries to pull him in closer. Krennic pushes back with the hand on Ben's throat and slaps him again.

"Good boys ask before they can touch," Krennic grunts. 

Ben groans in frustration and knocks his head back, twists under Krennic, practically thrashing from his need to grab. Hux can't stop watching the way Krennic handles him with ease, his pleased smile breaking across his red face even as he wrestles both of Ben's wrists into one of his own hands.  

Tarkin's hand is heavy on Hux's hip, and he squeezes it when Krennic juts a knee between Ben's legs. 

"Believe it or not," Tarkin murmurs in Hux's ear, his breath damp and hot against his skin, "Krennic used to be a bit of a brat back in the day."

Ben moans and grinds against Krennic's knee, pants out, "Are you just going to keep talking, or are you going to show me what you've got?"

"Really?" Hux asks, breathless from watching Krennic bare his teeth and roll Ben onto his front. He bunches his fingers into Ben's thick hair, Krennic's pale skin almost iridescent in contrast to how black his locks are, and he  _pulls_ until Ben cries out.

Tarkin sets his glass down on the small table beside the chair, grabs Hux's chin so he can tilt his head closer. He speaks the words at the corner of Hux's mouth. "Oh yes, he was horrible, much worse than your Ben. He was hired at my company, and strutted around the place like he owned it, like he knew better than everyone. He used to mouth off at me every chance he got."

Krennic strips Ben out of his clothes, and  _of course_ he isn't wearing underwear. Hux curses at the sight, at how  _presumptuous_ Ben is. Krennic chuckles, runs a hand over the swell of Ben's ass.

"Naughty thing," Krennic says, and it almost sounds like a compliment. Then, he winds back his hand and brings it down, the smack sharp in the room. Ben keens and throws his head back, grinds his hips down into the mattress.

Tarkin's hand drops from Hux's hip to the from of his pants. He palm's at Hux's erection, his grip firm but the pace lazy, indulgent, like all Tarkin wants is to slowly wind Hux up, and it is it's own kind of cruelty. 

"How did you manage him?" Hux asks before dropping his head against Tarkin's shoulder, panting wetly into his neck. Tarkin hums and rubs him a little harder, his grip tight and bruising. 

"One day he came into my office, mouthing off about some kind of report of his I rejected. He told me I was unfair, biased against him. Kept rambling on and on, about how  _wrongly_ he was being disciplined. I decided to give him the proper kind he deserved; I bent him over my desk and whipped him with my belt, before I lost control."

There's a wet sound coming from the bed, and Hux glances up just in time to catch Ben sucking on Krennic's fingers, his pink tongue lapping at them, getting them wet. He's already getting complacent, needy from being denied for so long, and willing from Krennic's rough hand. Hux sighs at the sight, and imagines what Tarkin losing control was; was his cool demeanor disrupted, his anger overcoming his tight control? Maybe his loss was the kind Hux suffered with Ben, a collapse of his will from the need to fuck into Ben, to sink into him until Ben's sharp words had melted into cries. Hux pictures it behind his eyelids- Tarkin, younger, his face a bit sharper and face twisted in anger, fucking into Krennic, scratching him and marking him, helpless to his rage and bereft of his control. It's enough to make him buck into Tarkin's hand, to twist in Tarkin's lap before he's coming, the friction and the sound of Ben's moans, Krennic's filthy muttering as he fingers Ben loose and open, pushing him over the edge.

"Beautiful," Tarkin sighs, rubbing him through it until it's painful, spreading the mess around and staining the front of Hux pants. Hux twists his hands in the front of Tarkin's shirt, tries to ride through the overwhelming feeling of it until he starts to get hard again, his body relenting to Tarkin's whim. "Let Orson dole out the punishments tonight," Tarkin murmurs, "I'll take care of the rewards."

**Author's Note:**

> If you feel like you've read this before, you might have! Some of this was originally posted to tumblr in smaller chunks. I consolidated it and added more things to it to make it a proper story.
> 
> There will be an additional chapter in the future.
> 
> I'm sorry this is so fucked up.
> 
> Come talk general sin on [my tumblr.](celloing.tumblr.com)


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